


Right

by autumnmycat



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Drabble, Drug Abuse, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, self-harm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnmycat/pseuds/autumnmycat
Summary: Pearl wasn't too fond of the idea of death, but she was also not sold on the idea of living.





	

Thoughts jumbled in her mind, made her head spin.

They would flood in, and then she would blank out, unable to speak. Words escaped her.

( _No, please, I’m sorry_.)

She looked around her room. She looked for pill bottles.

Benzos—gone. The Adderall her friend gave her—gone. Old SSRIs she decided not to take—useless in a situation like this.

Her fingers ran through her peach-colored hair, sweat caking strands to her forehead. Her eyes flicked over to the mirror/flicked away. Her hands found their way around her abdomen—it was done/ _it was done_ / ** _it was done—_**

( _Pearl—calm down. You’re having a panic attack._ )

She knew that—sort of. It was fine, but also, how was she supposed to carry on? Modern life was supposed to operate around stability, and she found herself unable to find any sort of stability.

In stories and books and shows, things got better—things went well, but lately, Pearl was unable to believe things would ever get better.

No one cares unless you’re fucking dying—unless you’re going to kill yourself—unless you’re going to hurt someone else—unless you’re going to take a knife and dig it _into your wrist_ — 

The thoughts spun around again. She found her hands pressed over her ears, as if that would keep the thoughts out. 

She was at the end of her rope. She wanted to know what to do, but it felt hopeless. Why even care anymore? It would be easier to just ruin her life, to lay in bed until death naturally overtook her. It sounded good, it sounded painless.

(She could really use less pain.) 

Unfortunately, considering she didn’t know what to do, she did the only thing she knew how to do. Pearl grabbed the bottle of vodka out of the freezer and poured a shot—two shots—okay, now three—

It would have to get better soon. It would just have to. 

(Right?)

( _ ~~Right?Right?Right?Right?Right?~~_ )

Pouring and taking her fourth shot (trying not to gag), she finally began to feel the calmness lay on her like blanket/heavy, hot, smothering/closer to death than she’d like to admit. 

Ah, but she wasn’t sick enough to garner acute help. She was _just_   _fine._

Fifth shot got her to bed.

Hopefully, she won’t remember this in the morning.

(Unfortunately, she probably will.)

 


End file.
